During my first year in France, I went into a supermarket in search of tinned tomatoes.
This was not, you might think, an event worth recording. But France has a remarkable ability to turn the most ordinary errand into a small cultural lesson.
I found a member of staff and, believing I was being terribly polite, began:
“Excusez-moi, où sont les tomates en boîte, s’il vous plaît?”
She looked at me, smiled and said:
“Bonjour.”
That was all.
Not the aisle number. Not a helpful point towards the tinned goods. Just bonjour.
So I said bonjour back. Only then did the tomatoes enter the conversation.
It was a tiny exchange, but it taught me one of the most useful rules of everyday French life: before the question, before the request, before the transaction, you greet the person.
The word that opens the door
In Britain, I would always say hello in a small local shop or somewhere I was a regular. But I would not necessarily walk into a large electrical store and greet the first employee I passed.
Here, even in Darty, BUT or Conforama, there is a chorus of bonjours. When you leave, there is an au revoir too.
The greeting is not decorative. It is the start of the exchange.
Once I noticed it, I began hearing it everywhere. In the villages around us, people say bonjour or bonsoir as they pass in the street. Not every three seconds in a busy town, naturally, and I cannot speak for all of France, but in this part of rural southwest France it is one of the details that makes daily life feel so friendly.
At first I had to remember to do it. Now it feels strange not to.
Then comes the conversation
The same principle continues at the till.
The cashier may know Madame Durand. Madame Durand may have news. That news will be heard, discussed and properly concluded, even if six people are waiting and someone’s frozen peas are beginning to reconsider their life choices.
When I first arrived, the lack of urgency could be frustrating. Ten years later, I mostly find it rather lovely.
Mostly.
If the queue reaches the sort of length you would expect two days before Christmas, another till might open. Until then, the conversation continues.
And now, I am sometimes part of it. Cashiers chat to me; some even like to practise their English, although how they work out that I’m not French remains one of life’s great mysteries.
Apparently, I have a look.
It certainly couldn’t be my unmistakably British accent. 😂
The warmth of these small conversations is one of the things I love about living here. They take a little more time, but they also make a supermarket feel less anonymous.
A small bag and a serious amount of ice protection
There are practical lessons too.
Long before reusable bags became quite so normal elsewhere, I learnt not to arrive at a French supermarket expecting someone to produce an endless supply of free carrier bags.
Small but essential
I now keep one of those tiny foldaway bags in my handbag at all times. It is invaluable for the unplanned stop on the way home or a clothing shop that does not automatically provide a free sac.
For anyone without a handbag, I can recommend a pocket, man bag, rucksack or glovebox. The bag is tiny. The smug satisfaction when you remember it is enormous.
The cold bag is a more substantial operation.
Mine comes armed with enough blue freezer blocks to survive a minor expedition. I buy the ice cream last and pack it immediately, because the till queue and Madame Durand’s family news cannot be hurried.
You do not defeat the rhythm of France. You prepare for it.
More than supermarket etiquette
It would be easy to treat all this as a list of rules: say this, bring that, do not rush.
But the longer I live here, the more I see something gentler underneath it.
A greeting says: I see you before I ask something of you.
The conversation at the till says: you are a neighbour before you are the next customer.
The bonjour from a stranger in the street says: we are sharing this small place, if only for a moment.
That does not mean I never stand in a queue silently willing it to move faster. I do. Especially when there is ice cream involved.
But learning to pause, greet and acknowledge people has changed the way I move through everyday life. What once felt like a delay now often feels like community.
All because I wanted a tin of tomatoes.